


Devil Like Me

by Miles_2_Go



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Bonding, Dimension Travel, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Multiverse, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim Drake-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29193915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miles_2_Go/pseuds/Miles_2_Go
Summary: Tim Drake has landed in an alternate universe and something is very wrong here. He needs to find a way home, but in the mean time everyone's hiding something from him, and he plans on getting to the bottom of it.----That’s where he’s waiting when he hears footsteps behind him. He doesn’t try to hide."If you do this, Master Tim, I fear you will be opening a can of worms that is much better left closed."Tim turns and regards Alfred for a moment before letting out a tired sigh. "I have to know, Alfred.""But why, sir? You will be going home, soon. Why does it matter?"Tim shrugged. "I can't help it. I have to know. I'm a detective. It's how he raised me."Alfred's smile is sad, his eyes suddenly damp. "No, my boy. I believe you came to us that way all on your own."
Relationships: Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 107
Kudos: 473





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So. I was going to write a quick little one shot because I was struggling with the sequel I'm writing for my main Tim series, and I just needed something to grease the wheels a bit, and...it turned into this nine chapter 15k+ monster and it was completely out of my control.
> 
> I have the whole story finished, and I'm currently editing chapter by chapter. Will probably post weekly, maybe twice weekly depending on how things are going for me.
> 
> Title is a Rainbow Kitten Surprise song because I'm currently obsessed.

He's clutching the wound in his side, but the bleeding hasn't slowed. It's run down his leg now and he can feel it leaking into his sock and pooling in the bottom of his loafer (his  _ loafer, _ which is a concern because he’s in his  _ civilian _ clothes, so  _ how—?). _ It squelches with every step he takes.

A cold nausea roils in his gut and his head is starting to spin a little from the blood loss. Maybe more than a little. His mouth tastes like vomit, but he doesn’t remember throwing up. Doesn’t remember how he  _ got _ here.

He watches the front of the house from his hiding place in the trees at the edge of the property. No one comes in or out, everything is quiet. Normal. The slight differences are what make him wary. He’s taking a risk, coming here. Anything could be waiting for him inside those walls.

He shifts his weight and finds himself swaying with just that slight movement.

He really doesn't have time to overthink this, does he?

So he finds himself stumbling forward and making his way instinctively to the side entrance. The one traditionally used for servants and deliveries.

He raps pale, bloody knuckles against the door and waits.

The response is surprisingly quick. The door eases open cautiously and Tim finds himself face to face with Alfred. He sways again as relief sweeps through him.

"Alfred," he breathes. His voice sounds muffled and oddly distant to his own ears. That's probably not a good sign. "Please tell me you know me."

"Master Timothy? What on Earth—"

"Oh, good," Tim croaks.

Then the world flips and everything is suddenly very, very far away.

——

He doesn’t know where Alfred has laid him. Focusing is so hard, his thoughts are slipping off of each other like wet ice cubes. He keeps losing time.

Alfred’s voice filters in and out. He manages to catch a question. "How did you get this wound, sir? It's very...unusual."

He doesn’t know. Why doesn’t he know? All he knows is he isn’t supposed to be here. Nothing is right. "Don't remember, Alf. Don’t remember how I got here.” He’s not sure if the words are coming out coherently or not, but he tries his best. “Everything's so different, I don't—This is another world, isn't it? You're not my Alfred."

Holding his focus long enough to comprehend Alfred’s response is a monumental task, but he does it somehow. "I'm afraid that certainly would explain some things, Master Tim, but that's not for you to worry about just now. You are safe here, my boy. Just rest. We can discuss things more once you are feeling better."

Bruce will know. Bruce knows everything. Why isn’t he here? Why is Alfred the only one home? "Where's Bruce? Damian?"

He can’t tell if he loses time, or if Alfred just hesitates. His face swims in and out of Tim’s vision, and there’s something off about his expression. "I'm not sure I—Master Bruce is away at the moment. Master Tim, I'm going to give you something to help you rest."

A pinch and Tim fades away again.

——

There’s a pale lump curled up in a cot in the medbay. Jason stops dead when he comes close enough to recognize the figure. Alfred steps up behind Jason and lays a hand on his shoulder.

Several emotions roil in his gut at once. He’s not sure which one will stick. "Alfred, what the  _ hell? _ Is that—"

"That does seem to be Master Timothy, Master Jason. I’m afraid he is not quite  _ our _ Master Tim, however. I'm not sure how any of this has happened, but I believe that he may be from another world, sir."

Jason’s heart sinks. Oh.  _ Hope _ was trying so hard to be the one that stuck. "Oh, great. Gotta love some multiverse fun.” He rubs his face. “What's S.O.P. for this again? Actually, screw protocol. I'm just gonna go talk to him."

Alfred’s grip on his shoulder tightens firmly before Jason can take a step forward. "Master Jason? See to it that you are...gentle. I have a feeling this Master Timothy's world may be very different from our own."

——

"Heya, Timbo. Time to wake up, kiddo."

Tim groans and lifts his eyelids groggily. Foggy eyes clear after a few moments and when they finally seem to focus on Jason, Tim visibly flinches but seems to catch himself, stilling and schooling his expression into something smooth and blank.

"Jason. You're...here?"

Jason cocks an eyebrow. "Where else would I be?"

"Not here."

Jason rolls his eyes. "Touché, I guess. So, what’s up, kid? What happened, why are you here?” Tim starts to speak, but the words fall from his lips in a foggy mumble and his eyes drift shut.

“Timmy? Still talkin’ here, kid, you with me?” Jason tries to keep his tone casual, but the easiness sounds forced to his ears. He hopes Tim is too out of it to notice.

Tim’s eyes flutter, but he can’t seem to keep them open. He lifts a weak hand in acknowledgement. His voice is drowsy and rough with exhaustion, but, eyes still closed, he continues anyway.

“Mm. Yeah. Don’t remember how I got here, Jay. Las’ thing...I remember was getting ready for a meeting at work and then I’m...bleeding and stumbling along the RKM bridge. But it was different? It was missin’ a whole two...Mm. Lanes. The ones they added a few years back? An’ there were more trees on the way to the manor than I remem’er. Houses I didn’t recognize. I knew I wasn’t where I was s’posed to be.”

“But you came here anyway? To the Manor.”

Tim laboriously lifts a single eyelid, just a crack. A sliver of blue peers warily at Jason. “Took a chance. It’s home. I don’ live here anymore, but it’s still home. S’it like that for your Tim?”

Jason scoffs. The fake lightness drops out of his voice, replaced by something tired and frustrated. “No. Not anymore.”

Tim opens both eyes now, the hazy wariness sharpening into a more calculated concern. “So was I wrong? Am I not safe here?”

Jason sighs and drops a gentle hand on Tim’s shoulder. “No, you weren’t wrong. Our Tim just...Well, it doesn’t matter. You aren’t our Tim. We’ll get you healed up and figure out how to get you home, promise. Don’t worry about it. Just rest, okay? You want me to send Alf back over? Need anything?”

After a moment of guarded deliberation, Tim seems to come to a decision and he lets his eyes slip back closed. “You’re nicer than my Jason,” he mumbles tiredly. “I’m okay. Thanks Jay.”

Jason takes a breath. It doesn’t come out shaky, and he’s proud of himself for that. “No problem, little brother. Sleep tight.”

——

Tim blinks awake at the sound of low voices filtering in from somewhere else in the Cave. He’s still in a cot in the medbay, where they must have brought him after he’d collapsed at their doorstep. His mouth is dry and the wound in his side is on fire. He has no idea how long he’s been here. He's been in and out of consciousness a few times, but time is meaningless in this state. Everything is fuzzy and his head aches. He thinks whatever pain medication he’s on must have worn off. He feels...wrong. Off, like something isn’t right. He doesn’t think he should feel this sick and achy.

The voices get louder and he tries to focus on what they’re saying.

“...not  _ using him, _ Dickhead, he’s our  _ brother, _ he doesn’t deserve—”

“He’s  _ not _ our brother.  _ Neither _ of them are any more, he made his choice. Jason, don’t you see the opportunity we’ve been given here? This could be our  _ one chance—” _

“He’s not the same Tim, you cold-hearted asshole. He’s just a kid, you have no idea what things might be like in his world, you can’t just—”

A sickening cold chill sweeps through Tim, and it’s distracting enough that he’s no longer able to focus on his brothers’ argument. God, his side is  _ really _ on fire, he really doesn’t feel well at all. He’s feeling floaty and distant, and not in an Alfred-broke-out-the-good-painkillers kind of way. He fumbles for the button he hopes is somewhere on the side of the cot like it is back in his world. He finds it and presses it and he hears a light dinging sound coming from speakers in the main cave. He knows the alert is also going off in several places in the Manor and in Alfred’s quarters.

Alfred isn’t the first to make it to his bedside like he might usually be, since Jason and Dick were obviously closer. Jason enters first, concern knitting his brow, and Tim is about to open his mouth to tell him that something is wrong when someone else appears at Jason’s shoulder.

Tim is just fuzzy enough that the face isn’t the first thing his mind focuses on. Instead it’s the  _ knives. _ Knives lining the belt, knives on the bandolier, several strapped to the gauntlets. Sharp and shining and  _ deadly. _

But it’s the gleaming metal crest that has him scrambling back, has him throwing himself off of the cot and  _ away. _ A golden owl’s face glares at him from the man’s chest.

A Talon. There’s a  _ Talon _ in the Cave.

Tim goes crashing to the floor and the wound in his side  _ wrenches _ and his vision whites out from the pain. He comes back to himself laying gasping on the cold stone. Jason is hovering over him, and again the Talon is standing  _ right behind him. _ Tim tries to move again, but Jason is pushing him down firmly by the shoulders.

“Jesus kid, calm down, it’s okay, you’re safe! What the hell—”

It’s then that Jason notices where Tim’s wide eyes are focusing and he glances back over his shoulder.

“Dick, get out of here, man. You’re scaring the bejesus out of the kid.”

It’s then that Tim’s cotton-filled mind is able to determine what exactly he’s seeing and  _ the Talon is Dick. _ He’s maskless and staring at Tim, a bright gold rim ringing his blue irises, his skin no longer that sun-kissed bronze that comes from his mother’s heritage, but rather a cold, deathly pale. Dick Grayson is a Talon and he’s standing there staring at Tim like  _ he’s _ the crazy one.

_ “Dick?” _ Tim’s voice comes out weak and shaky. “What  _ happened _ to you?”

Dick’s face ripples with surprise for a blink before it hardens into something else. His gold-blue eyes flash and he bares his teeth in a snarl before spinning around on his heel and swiftly leaving the room without a sound.

Tim blinks stupidly after him and then shifts his wide-eyes to Jason. Jason sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose before shaking his head. “Come on kid, let’s get you back into bed. Alfred’s gonna be pissed if you ripped your stitches.”

“Indeed.” Alfred’s cool voice is followed by the clicking of his shoes on the stone as he enters the room. “What on Earth is going on here?”

Jason struggles to pull Tim to his feet and his head swims dangerously with the movement. He’s not sure if he’s going to vomit or pass out. Maybe both.

Jason manages to get him back into bed with absolutely no help from Tim and steps out of the way as Alfred makes his way to the bedside. “You pressed the call button, Master Tim? How are you feeling?”

“Not well. I think something’s wrong, Alfred.”

Alfred’s brow pinches and he lays the back of his head against Tim’s forehead. “My word, Master Timothy, you are burning up,” he says, his voice sharp. He lifts the bandages over the wound gently. “It seems as though your wound is infected, my boy. You’re sure you don’t remember how this happened? We’ve been giving you antibiotics, they should have prevented this.”

“Oh.” Tim flushes, and lowers his eyes sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Alfred, I should’ve mentioned…”

Alfred raises an eyebrow. “Should’ve mentioned what  _ exactly, _ Master Timothy?”

“I...my spleen. It’s, um. I don’t have one? You’ll probably need stronger antibiotics. I’m sorry, Alf, really, I guess I thought you’d…But I guess your Tim didn’t lose his spleen?”

Alfred’s face goes carefully blank, but behind him Jason’s face does something odd.

Alfred takes a few steps over to rifle through a supply cabinet, glass bottles clinking as he searches through them. "How did it happen, if I may ask?" His voice is light, and it's obvious that he's purposefully steering the conversation away from the subject of Tim's alternate self.

"Sword wound. When I was with the League."

Alfred pales and squeezes his eyes closed. The clinking stops. Jason balks.

Dick appears in the doorway, obviously having been eavesdropping. "What did I say?" He growls at Jason. "I told you.”

"Shut  _ up, _ Dick. We don't  _ need _ this right now. You don’t know  _ anything _ .”

"Master Jason," Alfred says. "Would you be so kind as to gather the necessary supplies to start Master Timothy on an IV?" Jason looks like he's about to protest, but thinks better of it and begins pulling supplies out of cabinets and drawers, his hands moving jerkily. Alfred moves back over to Tim's bedside and sets a small glass bottle down on the bedside cart. "By ‘the League’," he says softly, "Do you mean the League of Assassins, Master Timothy?"

"I...um. Yes?" His apparently raging fever is really making it hard to concentrate. He's obviously said something wrong. Something is going on here and his slippery mind just isn't up to catching on right now. Things are obviously much different in this world and he has no idea what mines he might be stepping on. Talon Dick is still standing in the doorway staring daggers at Tim. He's never seen Dick's face twisted like that before.

"I see," Alfred responds, his voice carefully level.

"Alf, I'm sorry, I think I'm upsetting everyone, I don't—"

"Nonsense, Master Timothy." Alfred begins re-taping Tim's wound after confirming that the stitches have remained intact, his movements deft. Jason has piled the requested supplies in a neat pile on the cart and he's standing rigid, returning Talon Dick's glare. "Master Richard, Master Jason—our young guest needs to rest. I suggest the two of you remain upstairs for the remainder of the night." His clipped tone makes it very clear that is not, in fact, a suggestion.

——

This world’s Dick is not the Dick Tim knows. He has Dick Grayson’s face, but nothing else about him is the same. There’s no Nightwing here, only Talon. Tim’s Dick Grayson is warm, and affectionate, and kind. Talon’s eyes are hard and cold. He seems to like Jason well enough, but he never slaps him playfully on the arm, doesn’t stand close enough that their shoulders are casually brushing when they’re both looking at something on the computer. He’s distant and guarded. He never laughs, never smiles.

When Talon and Jason spar, he’s just as smooth, and lithe, and graceful, but he doesn’t seem to be enjoying himself like Dick always does. His movements are not full of the unbridled joy that Dick radiates when he moves. Talon’s movements are calculated and ruthless and  _ savage. _ Jason comes away bleeding more often than not, but he acts as though that’s par for the course. Expected.

And Talon does not like Tim. That much is very obvious.

Talon regards him with open suspicion and thinly-veiled hostility. He never speaks directly to Tim, instead using Jason or Alfred as his go-between when he thinks Tim needs to know something. On the rare occasion he does address Tim he always speaks  _ at _ him, as though he were invisible and Talon were just thinking out loud.

Though less dramatically, this world’s Jason is different as well. Tim’s Jason has definitely come around more since his early, volatile Red Hood days (and if Tim were pressed, he might even brag that Jason was closest with Tim, of all their siblings), but his Jason has never been as  _ open _ as this world’s Jason. Tim can’t quite put his finger on what is so different about this one. There’s something in his face. He’s still clearly the street-wise little shit that had the balls to try and steal the tires off the Batmobile, and he’s definitely still the brawler in the family, but he’s less guarded. Quicker to laugh, quicker to show his feelings on his face. And there’s something in his eyes when he looks at Tim. Sadness, maybe. Softness. When he speaks to Tim, there’s a lilt to his voice when he uses a nickname, a gentleness that makes them sound more endearing from his mouth; different from the mild snarky bite that Tim is used to. He even lets the occasional “little brother,” slip—something that Tim’s Jason has never done.

This world is different. Something happened to their Tim. He wants to ask but he doesn’t want to open wounds that he’s already clearly tearing at just by being here.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. This isn’t his world. He just needs to focus on getting healthy and then he can help his brothers figure out how to send him home.

“His brothers,” because Bruce is nowhere to be found. Tim vaguely remembers asking that first day. He remembers Alfred’s non-answer.

He remembers the complete lack of recognition in his eyes at the sound of Damian’s name.

It doesn’t matter. It  _ doesn’t. _ This isn’t his world. It isn’t his business.

——

Getting healthy proves to be harder than he thought it would be. The fever is difficult to shake. It gets worse before it gets better, and Tim is in and out of lucidity for a while. Alfred has him on IV antibiotics and fluids, but it takes a while before they help.

Eventually the fever passes and Tim is able to get out of bed with some assistance.

He doesn’t ask to leave the Cave and no one offers.

Soon, he’s well enough that he can move around on his own and he shambles between the computer deck and the sparring mats. He’s not allowed on the Batcomputer just yet—Alfred says it’s because he isn’t well enough to be working, but he has a feeling it’s because they don’t trust him—but he sits nearby while Jason and Talon work and offers input when he can. They’re trying to figure out how to send him home.

He watches Jason and Talon spar on the mats and he misses his brothers.  _ His _ brothers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! So, I really want to give you guys a chapter a week, which means that this chapter is up with less editing than I originally wanted to do because I really can't focus much right now. I'm really going to try to keep up with my self-appointed deadline of updating on Tuesdays or Wednesdays, but I just started seizure meds for the first time yesterday and they're making me feel WONKY and it's hard to focus on anything. Please let me know if you see any glaring mistakes or anything doesn't make sense here. Can't make any promises on the quality of the upcoming chapters since I probably won't be able to edit them as much as I want either, but I promise you'll at least be getting something! Everything has already been written, luckily, so the story is finished, you just might not be getting...high brow literature, here lol.

They’re hiding something from Tim and he intends to find out what. They’re hiding a  _ lot _ of things, but there’s something that they’re putting more effort into hiding and he wants to know why.

Alfred gives Tim a thorough check up every night. In addition to checking his wound and changing the bandage, he takes Tim’s temperature, checks his reflexes, blood pressure—the works. Alfred has always been careful and thorough, but this seems to be excessive. Almost like he’s doing it to keep Tim occupied.

Coincidentally, these nightly checkups happen to take place every time Jason and Talon are leaving for patrol. Which means that Tim is always too busy to see them suit up and head out.

He also never gets to see them come back.

Every night after his checkup Tim does a light stretching and workout routine on the mats and then does some meditation and brainstorming for Plan Send Tim Home. He has to do his work with  _ paper _ and a  _ calculator _ like a  _ barbarian, _ but he leaves it on the desk by the Batcomputer for Jason and Talon when he’s finished and they incorporate it into their work later.

Then, like clockwork, Alfred brings him dinner. Not long after, Tim always seems to be too tired to keep his eyes open and he turns in for the night.

At first, he blames his tiredness on the infection and then on the lingering weakness after it’s gone.

But after a while he comes to the conclusion that he’s pretty sure Alfred is drugging his food.

So one night, Alfred sets his dinner down on the work table next to Tim and Tim doesn’t glance up from his calculations. “Thanks, Alf,” he says absently, pretending to be focused on his work.

Alfred leaves and Tim doesn’t touch the food. It grows cold on the plate and Tim continues his work.

After a while, Alfred comes to collect his plate and finds it still untouched. “Master Timothy,” he chides. “The infection may be gone, but your wound is still healing. Your body needs sustenance in order to grow healthy tissue.”

“Sorry, Alfie, I’m just on a roll here. This is really important.”

“I know you are eager to return home, my boy, but I believe your Alfred would rather not appreciate it if I sent you back to him half-starved.”

“I’m okay, Alf, lunch was really filling. Honestly, I’m not hungry. Sorry, I don’t want all your hard work to go to waste. Save it for me?”

Alfred huffs, but takes the plate away. “Very well. I shall bring you a coffee, then.”

Clever, Alfred.

Alfred comes back with a steaming mug of coffee and sets it on the table next to Tim. It’s only when Tim pretends to take a small, distracted sip and looks up at Alfred with a smile and a “Thanks, Alf,” that he seems satisfied and leaves.

When Alfred’s out of sight and out of earshot, Tim dumps the mug over the side of a catwalk and watches the stream of liquid fall into the dark.

——

He lets Alfred think he’s won and pretends to go to bed. He lays awake in his cot and stares at the ceiling. He lets his mind wander. He tries to convince himself that he’s wrong about what they’re trying to hide.

When it’s time for his brothers to return from patrol Tim sneaks out of bed and goes to wait by the garage bay entrance.

That’s where he’s waiting when he hears footsteps behind him. He doesn’t try to hide.

"If you do this, Master Tim, I fear you will be opening a can of worms that is  _ much better _ left closed."

Tim turns and regards Alfred for a moment before letting out a tired sigh. "I have to know, Alfred."

"But why, sir? You will be going home, soon. Why does it matter?"

Tim shrugged. "I can't help it. I have to know. I'm a detective. It's how he raised me."

Alfred's smile is sad, his eyes suddenly damp. "No, my boy. I believe you came to us that way all on your own."

Alfred leaves him alone to wait.

——

The Batmobile roars into the bay and Tim holds his breath.

He lets it out in a stuttering whoosh when the car’s doors slide open and Batman steps out.

And it isn’t Bruce.

Jason pulls the cowl back and lets it hang down his back. Surprise is etched into his features and he stares at Tim with grief and failure in eyes. Talon comes around from the other side of the car and stands next to Jason. He doesn’t remove his owl mask and regards Tim with the cold metallic golden glare of his goggles. He crosses blade-adorned arms and turns his head to Jason in an uncannily bird-like movement. “I told you it wouldn’t work for long.”

Jason ignores Talon, but Tim sees his jaw flex in annoyance. “Tim,” he greets. “I know better than to try but...just...don’t ask?  _ Please.” _ He’s trying to hide the pleading tremble in his voice, and he’s almost successful.

“He’s dead, isn’t he.” It’s not a question. Tim already knows. Has suspected for a while.

Jason squeezes his eyes shut and breathes for a moment before he nods. Talon’s cold gaze doesn’t leave Tim, but something about his body language changes. He’s tense, like he’s readying for something.

“How?”

Talon takes a single step forward. His back is straight, his head up. He squares his shoulders before he speaks. Jason reaches a hand out to him and opens his mouth in protest, but Talon cuts him off before he can speak.

“I killed him.” Talon’s voice is level when he says it.

And Tim...Tim was  _ not _ expecting that. He takes a step back. His voice is watery, his throat tight. “You? Y— _ Why?” _

“No.” Jason takes a step toward Talon, and grips his shoulder. Talon, surprisingly, doesn’t shrug him off. “Dick, it wasn’t you.” He turns desperate eyes to Tim. “It  _ wasn’t.” _

Talon reaches up and pulls the mask off. His Court-tainted eyes are...not as cold as the glaring owl goggles. Tim didn’t expect the humanity that shines from them. It’s the first time since he’s been here that he sees  _ Dick. _ His gold-blue eyes are haunted.

“I did. I ran him through with my sword. He died gasping with his own blood on his lips and the last words he ever heard were ‘The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.’” His voice is steady, but Tim can see that Talon’s...that  _ Dick’s _ hands are shaking as he holds the Talon mask in a white-knuckled grip.

Tim’s legs feel weak. He needs to sit down. He thinks he might fall right there, but he locks his knees and stands steady. This man standing before him killed Bruce.  _ Dick killed Bruce. _ Tim doesn’t know how he should react. If it were  _ Talon _ standing before him—the man with the cold stare and the vicious blades—he knows what he would have done. Weak and still recovering or not, he would fight. He would have beaten Talon to a pulp, put him somewhere deep and dark and far away and thrown away the key. More likely he would have died trying.

But this isn’t Talon. This is Dick. He can see him now. The little boy from the circus; he’s still in there. He’s just buried himself beneath the pain of killing his own father and whatever tortures were inflicted upon him to turn him into the thing that could do that.

Tim has been staring at Dick’s face but he blinks when he realizes that he can no longer see it. Jason has moved to stand in front of his brother. He’s guarding him. Protecting him from whatever retribution Tim might decide to enact. “He  _ didn’t,” _ Jason insists again, voice firm this time. “He was brainwashed. They had him for  _ four years, _ Tim. They tried to turn him into one of those  _ things, _ but he fought it. He fought it  _ so hard. _ And he won. He beat them. It was just…”

“Too late,” Tim finishes for him.

Jason swallows and nods. “Bruce’s death did it. Broke the programming. Dick tried to save him, after, but…”

Dick steps out from behind Jason. His eyes are on the ground, focusing on nothing. He doesn’t look up when he asks “So your Bruce? He’s...he’s okay? And your Dick?”

“Yeah. Yeah, they were fine the last time I saw them.”

“You don’t have...you don’t have a Talon? A Court?”

Tim shakes his head. “No. Dick is Nightwing. Not Talon. We fought the Court. They’ve made a few moves on Dick, but we stopped them. There are only...dredges now. Embers.”

Dick’s distant gaze shoots up and sharpens. Gold-blue bores into Tim with a sudden intensity. “Embers still burn. Douse them.  _ Stomp them out. _ Make sure. You  _ have _ to make sure, Tim.”

Tim nods unsteadily. “Yeah. Yeah I...we will.”

Dick lets out a shaky breath and seems to deflate. The lines of his body read exhaustion. An old weariness showing.

“How long?” Tim asks. His voice is barely above a whisper.

Dick lets go of the Talon mask with one black-gloved hand and reaches up to try and scrub some of the weariness from his face. “It happened...almost two years ago now.”

Tim lets the analytical part of his brain take over for a while. It was easier to just sink into the facts, the numbers. To rationalize.

Jason’s body language is still guarded, still tense. He looks from Tim to Dick and back to Tim. “So you’re not gonna...we’re all good? You’re not gonna...go all Inigo Montoya?”

Dick glares tiredly at Jason and Tim covers his face with both hands. “Jesus.” It comes out a muffled hiccup.

“Too soon?” Jason tries to make his voice light and joking but it just comes out high and tight.

Tim never thought he would be grateful for Jason’s ridiculous gallows humor, but it does the job and breaks the tension enough that he can focus on the facts.

He drops his hands from his face and rubs idly at the bandage on his side as he ruminates. “So six years ago the Court of Owls kidnaps you. They have you for four years before you—before Bruce dies and you break through the brainwashing. Six years ago you were...twenty, assuming our timelines are running exactly parallel?”

Dick nods an affirmative. He’s watching Tim. The weariness is still there, the haunted exhaustion showing through his cold exterior (Tim wonders if it’s always been there and he just didn’t want to see it until now), but his head is tilted slightly with bird-like interest.

Tim nods a little shakily and continues. “Which would have made me twelve and Jason fifteen.” He looks over at Jason who is still looking between Dick and Tim a little apprehensively, like he thinks that one of them is going to launch themselves at the other at any second. Tim notices that the Bat suit actually looks  _ good _ on him. It’s similar to Bruce’s—he didn’t change much. The cut is perfect, fitting snugly to his body. He’s been in it for two years and made it  _ his. _ Tim tries not to think about it, tries to push down the thrum of  _ Bruce is dead, Bruce is dead, Bruce is dead, Bruce is dead _ that threatens to overwhelm him if he lets it get a foothold.

“So...what…” Tim is losing his train of thought, emotions starting to bubble over. He’s struck with memories of Jason in the  _ demonic _ Bat suit he’d made himself when  _ Tim’s _ Bruce was temporarily lost to them. The burning red eyes that had watched Tim fall with a batarang buried in his chest. He shakes his head to banish the memories.

He wonders if something like that happened in this world. If that’s why this world’s Tim is gone.

It’s none of his business. It’s  _ not. _ This isn’t his world. None of this should matter.

But he  _ needs _ to know. He knows if he goes home without finding out it will eat at him. He could have so easily become this Tim himself.

He wonders how different this world’s Tim is. If he was twelve when Dick was taken that would mean he and Dick never even met, aside from that single traumatic night at the circus. Tim’s only exposure to Dick likely would have been with him as a Talon. As Bruce’s killer. This Tim wouldn’t have had a Nightwing to help train and guide him.

And this Tim...would have been sixteen when Bruce was killed. Not long after he’d lost Steph and Kon and Bart and Dad. God, this Tim had lost even  _ more _ than he had at that age. Tim had barely been able to make it through that time himself. His mission to find Bruce when he was lost in time had been the only thing for him to hold onto. But this Bruce was dead. Real, actual dead. This Tim would have been...unmoored. And alone.

“Where...where is your Tim?”

Dick stiffens and Jason’s shoulders slump.

Jason lets his breath out in a tired huff. His voice is quiet. “He’s with the League of Assassins now. He serves Ra’s al Ghul.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to point out that the number of times I have written the phrases "Tim's Dick, his Dick, my Dick, this Dick, your Dick" in this T-rated Gen story is awkward.
> 
> Please leave comments, they fuel me and I really need them right now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys finally have a very important conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all want an extra chapter this week? Have an extra chapter, you deserve it. <3

They decide to move up to the Manor for this discussion and Tim can see now why they didn’t want him up here before. It’s...different in a way that makes it obvious that there’s no Bruce here. It’s just little things like the placement of the cup of pens on the desk in the study—Bruce always keeps his pens on the left side because even though he’s ambidextrous he prefers to write with his left hand and drink his coffee with his right—that make it obvious to Tim’s Bat-honed attention to detail that this is someone else’s space now. He hadn’t noticed when he’d first come here—he had been too busy collapsing from blood loss to take in the minutiae then.

They bypass the desk and settle in the small sitting area in the corner. Jason takes a seat in Bruce’s favorite wingback and Dick settles on the chaise lounge that’s tucked between two bookshelves against the wall. Jason and Dick have changed into civilian clothes and Tim blinks at them for a moment, suddenly struck by the surrealism of the scene before him. On the rare occasion that  _ his _ Jason is in the Manor, he always makes a point to snag the wingback before Bruce can sit down. Tim’s always suspected it’s a bit of a game between them—a holdover from Jason’s Robin days. He often wonders if Jason even realizes he’s still doing it and Bruce always gets a faraway look in his eyes any time it happens.

And Dick...the chaise lounge used to be in one of the sitting rooms in the East Wing, but it was a rarely used sitting room and Dick always liked the lounge so he’d talked Bruce into moving it into the study for him. That had only been a few years back, which makes Tim wonder if this Dick moved the lounge here since he’d returned to the Manor after becoming a Talon, or if he’d talked his Bruce into doing it years earlier than Tim’s Dick.

Either way, Tim is struck again by the fact that the pale, haunted man leaning stiffly against one of the lounge’s beige pillows  _ really is _ his brother, despite the differences.

And who had probably never, from what Tim has guessed, really got the time to come to know  _ this _ world’s Tim as a brother.

He looks between the two of them and swallows down yet another pang of homesickness.

Tim takes his own seat—a less-than-comfortable slipper chair, the type with no arms to lean on and cushions too fat and too firm to really have a spot in which to settle comfortably without feeling like one is about to slide off the edge of the chair. It was the least comfortable in the room and Tim had taken to sitting in it because it was often the only seat left when everyone had taken their spots, and Tim didn’t really mind the discomfort all that much. He’d always felt like more of a guest in the Manor in those early years as Robin and hadn’t wanted to be an imposition by taking someone else’s place or asking that a more comfortable chair be brought in for him. By the time he’d made more of a home here he’d gotten used to it.

They sit in silence while Alfred goes to fetch them tea and coffee. Tim has so many questions burning in his throat, but he can’t decide which to ask first. He knows he isn’t going to like any of the answers. 

But he has to know. He  _ has _ to.

He breaks before Alfred returns. He clears his throat awkwardly. “So...the League.”

Jason nods and Dick looks away. Tim still doesn’t understand Dick’s odd reactions to any mention of this world’s Tim. Doesn’t understand why he has so obviously disliked Tim since the moment they met in the medbay.

Tim suddenly remembers the snatches of the argument he’d overhead all those days ago.

“I heard you before, you know,” he finds himself saying. It isn’t where he’d been about to go with this conversation, but it’s suddenly nagging at him. He has a feeling that asking about that argument might get him to the heart of the situation here. “You were arguing. I couldn’t hear much. It was when I’d first woken with a fever.”

Recognition sparks in Jason’s eyes and a muscle in Dick’s jaw ticks.

“We—It’s not important. It doesn’t matter now,” Jason says.

“No, I think it is.” He looks at Dick. “Look, I know me being here is bringing up a lot of bad memories, and I’m sorry for that. And I’m sorry for prying, I really am. It’s selfish, I know, but...I’m  _ here _ now, and I don’t know how long it’s going to be until we find a way to send me back, so...I need to be in the loop here.”

Dick finally turns his gaze on Tim and it’s a look that’s more Talon than Dick. Calculating, assessing. “We want your help to bring our Tim down,” he says bluntly.

“No we  _ don’t,” _ Jason hisses, turning an angry glare on Dick.

“Bring him  _ down?” _ Tim asks, shocked. “Not  _ back?” _

“No,” Dick says calmly. “Down.”

“You said you were with the League,” Jason interjects suddenly. “How did you...you left?”

Tim is still reeling from what he just heard.  _ Take him down? _ He blinks and tries to re-focus. Had he said that, that he’d been with the League? He had, he remembers now. The fever had made it hard to think then. “I was,” he says slowly. “But, only in a technical sense, I guess? I wasn’t  _ with _ with them. It was more like...undercover work. Sort of.”

Dick tilts his head in that bird-like curiosity again. “Explain,” he says, no inflection in his tone, just a cold demand.

_ “You _ explain,” Tim says. He’s getting frustrated now. Hurt is pulsing through his chest. Dick thinks of this world’s Tim as their  _ enemy? _

Dick shakes his head. “We need to know before we give you any more information. Explain.”

Jason doesn’t argue. Doesn’t back Tim up, even though he looks torn.

They still don’t trust him. They want him to prove that he’s not like their Tim first. Tim doesn’t like it, but he understands.

“It was when...well. Did your Bruce ever…” He tries to sort the jumbled timeline in his head, but so many things are different here it isn’t really worth trying to figure out, so he just asks. “Did your Bruce ever get lost in time?”

By the absent looks he receives, Tim is led to assume that the answer is no.

Tim rubs at his face. What a mess.

“Okay,” he sighs. “So…” His eyes wander up and to the right as he counts on his fingers. “Three? Years ago there was this big fight with Darkseid. Bruce was killed. Or so everyone thought. But  _ I _ didn’t believe he was dead. Dick became Batman and when I came to him about it he didn’t believe me. He thought I was crazy. He  _ took _ Robin from me and gave it to…” Yeah, probably don’t bring Damian up. Not yet, anyway. “Another kid. We’ll talk about him later. Anyway, I was on my own. So I took up the Red Robin mantle and went out on my own to find Bruce. I—”

“Wait, wait,” Jason says.  _ “You _ took up Red Robin? Where was  _ I _ for all of this?”

What?

Oh.

_ Oh. _

Tim...missed something. Something important. Something  _ vitally important. _

“You—” he splutters.  _ “You’re _ Red Robin?” Jason’s brow furrows and he and Dick share a look.

“Yes? Or I  _ was. _ Before Bruce—before I put on the Bat suit. Am I something different where you come from?”

Oh boy.

Tim doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to explain. Just...how deeply do these differences go?

“No. Uh. You’re...not Red Robin. You’re Red Hood.”

Jason wrinkles his nose. “That doesn’t really fit the whole...things-with-wings theme.” He cocks his head curiously.

“Uh...no, you’re right. It—it doesn’t.”

Jason and Dick stare at him, waiting for an explanation.

“Jay, did you…” He stops and thinks for a minute. He has to go about this very carefully. If this were  _ his _ Jason it would be like walking through a minefield.

He’s starting to think that it might not be for this Jason, however.

So he goes for it.

“Jay, did you die?”

The color drains from Jason’s face. Dick blinks.

“Your Jason died?” Jason’s voice is hoarse.

Tim lets out a breath and sinks back as much as he can into the hard, overstuffed cushions of his chair. “Yeah,” he says. “He did.”

“But he’s not still dead?” Dick asks. He leans forward and Tim hears a hint of desperation in his voice.

“No. Um. We’re not really sure how. He…” Tim rubs at his face and tries to gather his thoughts. “When Jason was fifteen the Joker killed him. Some months later Jason wakes up in his coffin. Buried. He was  _ dead. _ Real, honest dead. But he came back and we still don’t know how. He dug himself out and he...wasn’t the same.” He shouldn’t be telling them this, really. He knows that. He should spare them the pain of hearing it. But he can’t stop himself. Can’t help but go into detail as he’s reminded of the atrocities that his Jason had to experience. “His injuries were severe, he had brain damage. He wandered the streets for...we don’t know how long exactly. He didn’t find his way home and none of us...none of us found him. But someone did. Someone who recognized him as Robin. Who sold him out to Talia al Ghul. She—” Tim can’t keep the hatred out of his voice. “She put him in a Lazarus pit. It healed his injuries, his brain, but...it did something to him. Twisted him up. Made him angry. He came back to Gotham after years of training himself to take revenge against Bruce. For not avenging him. For not killing the Joker.”

Tim’s mouth is dry when he’s done speaking. No one says anything and the silence lays between them like a dead boy’s grave.

It’s then that Alfred comes back with a tray full of mugs. He stoops to set the tray on the low coffee table nearby and then straightens. He regards them quietly for a moment and Tim wonders how long he had stood outside listening before he came in.

He clears his throat politely before asking, “Sirs, may I sit?”

That seems to jostle them all out of their stupor and everyone is bustling at once to make room. Dick moves a small pillow and slides over, making a space for Alfred on the lounge. Alfred’s knees crackle as he lowers himself onto the edge of the seat and he settles with a soft sigh.

“Master Timothy,” he says. “I believe you were explaining how you came to work with the League.”

The liquid in those mugs is definitely cold, then. Tim reaches over to the table and takes one. A sip confirms that the coffee is indeed tepid, but has otherwise been made perfectly to his tastes. To this world’s Tim’s tastes. He swallows around a sudden lump in his throat. When did this Alfred last get to make coffee for his Tim?

Thirst quenched, Tim tries to reign his scrambled thoughts in. “Right, uh. Anyway, Jason was the Red Hood. He...you... _ he _ was out of the picture for most of this. His relationship with the family has improved these days, but it’s been...a rocky road to get there.”

“You said he wanted Joker dead?” Jason’s voice is a little unsteady.

“Yeah. It’s not...important to the story really. Jason’s... _ views... _ don’t quite align with Bruces. He uses guns and…”

“And kills people,” Dick finishes. He’s looking at Jason with a curious interest, as though sizing him up.

Talon Dick is a bit morbid.

“Sometimes,” Tim admits. “Only really bad people. And not so much these days. It’s complicated.”

Jason’s still looking pale and shaken, and Alfred, bless him, steers the conversation back on track.

“And where did you go, Master Tim? On your quest to retrieve Master Bruce? I assume your efforts were successful?”

“Um, yeah—yes. I ended up getting a bit tangled with the League. Ra’s... _ believed me. _ About Bruce. He was the only person to believe me. He gave me people, resources.” Tim shrugs. “We used each other.” He ticked a list off on his fingers, one by one. “He used me to run some missions, I took his resources. He wanted me to become his heir, I blew up a bunch of his bases. He tried to blow up a bunch of people that Bruce cared about, I stopped him. We fought, he kicked me out of a window from the top story of a skyscraper. Haven’t seen him since. I got Bruce back, I won. That was the end of it.”

The stunned silence between them wasn’t nearly as heavy this time, nor was it as long.

“You’re nuts, kid,” Jason says. There’s something in his voice, beneath the surprise. That foreign fondness that Tim has seen from him so often.

“So you…” Tim starts. “You didn’t die. Which means you’ve been in Gotham? This whole time?”

“I trained overseas a bit, but yeah, for the most part I’ve been around.”

“So how—what happened with the Joker? He never set up a trap for you in Ethiopia?”

Jason shakes his head and Dick interjects. “The Court killed the Joker years ago. Before I was ever even a part of it.”

Well. That would certainly take care of that, then.

“So you were a part of your Tim’s life.”

Jason’s smile is sad and small. “Yeah. Yeah I was. After Dick was taken...it was hard. For all of us, but especially for Bruce. He...was in a dark place. Was going down a dark path. And I wasn’t much help. I...think your Jason and I might have a little in common in that regard. Bruce was getting more and more violent and...I was there right along with him. We were trying to get Dick back and it wasn’t—Robin couldn’t do the things that we needed to do. I was tarnishing Dick’s mantle. So I put it away. Took up Red Robin. B and I...we tore a bloody hole through Gotham trying to find Dick. We never...we never went as far as your Jason, we  _ never _ killed anyone, but we weren’t exactly gentle, either. Tim...well I don’t know how you came to us in your world, but our Tim knocked on the front door.” Jason chuckles quietly. “Bruce would never admit it, but I’ve never seen him look  _ flabbergasted _ before. This scrawny little twelve year old standing on his doorstep telling him he knew all about Bruce being Batman.” Jason’s gaze is far away and his tone goes soft. Tim can hear the ache in it. “He tried to convince Bruce and I that we were falling apart. That Batman needed a Robin to keep him on the right path. He tried to convince me to pick up the yellow cape again, but I...I couldn’t. Not anymore. So...so the little brat decided he’d just do it himself. There was no telling that kid  _ no, _ let me tell you. And then he just…” He takes in a shuddering breath, tears springing to his eyes. His words are tight and watery. “I don’t know what  _ happened,” _ he whispers, voice breaking. “I don’t know how he could go from that bright-eyed  _ brilliant _ little  _ shit _ who would risk his life putting on the Robin suit  _ just _ to make sure that Batman stayed on the path of good to...to…” His words choke off and he covers his face with both hands. His shoulders shake, but no sounds come from beneath his fingers. Tim half expects Dick to reach over and hug Jason or pat him on the back—to do  _ something _ Dick-like, but he just stares at him with a soft, confused look. Like he's not quite sure he knows what to do for his brother. But he's not without compassion, like Tim had assumed before. He's just...too damaged to understand how to act on the empathy he's feeling. 

“What  _ happened?” _ Tim asks quietly, his words directed to no one in particular.

_ “I _ happened,” Dick says. He looks away from Jason's quiet sobbing and his muscles go rigid, but Tim can see the remorse pouring off of him in the way that he holds himself so still, in the tiredness in his voice. “I killed Bruce and...Tim wasn’t the same after that. At least from what everyone tells me. I wasn’t...in much of a state to really understand much of what was going on then. Not at first.”

Jason wipes his face and takes a breath, composing himself. “Tim stuck around for a while. He tried. He helped with Dick, at first. Dick was…” He glances over at his brother, eyes brimming with affection and grief. “Not in a good place for a long time. Obviously. And neither was Tim. They lashed out at each other. A lot. Tim didn't  _ blame _ Dick for what happened—not at first, anyway, but...I don't know. He just couldn't get past it. He just got more and more…”

“Unhinged,” Dick supplies drily. Jason shoots him a look, but continues.

“Eventually he just...up and disappeared. Took his gear and dropped off the map. We looked for him, we really did, but…”

“But he didn’t want to be found.” And Tim knows all too well how to hide when he needs to. He’s done it often enough.

Jason nods. “And it was just...a  _ lot. _ I was trying to help Dick, and someone had to put on the cowl, the city was falling apart without us. So we just had to let him go. Had to trust that he would be okay on his own.”

“He went to Ra’s?”

Jason shrugs. “I don’t know how he ended up with the League. I don’t know if he went straight there, I don’t know if they just  _ captured _ him or  _ coerced _ him. He could be brainwashed for all we know. Once we found out he was with the League we tried to reach out, tried to talk some sense into him but he wouldn’t listen.”

“And you’re trying to take him down? What has he done exactly?” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Jason is obviously upset. Obviously cares about his brothers. But the idea that they would ever want to take Tim down  _ hurts. _

“He brought the League into Gotham. Destroyed the Court of Owls.” Dick’s voice is dark, and Tim doesn’t understand why. Hadn’t Dick  _ just _ said that Tim should do the same in his own world? Doesn’t Dick have more right than  _ anyone _ to want the Court gone?

“That’s...well that’s not  _ great, _ bringing the League into the city, but it’s not necessarily a  _ bad _ thing, is it?” There’s more to the story. He asks even though he’s not sure he wants to hear it.

“They killed them all,” Jason said. His face is a blank mask, his tone distant. He’s lost in memories. “Everyone involved with the Court, not just the Talons. The rich assholes behind the masks,  _ everyone. _ And a lot of innocent people got caught up in the crossfire. The Court retaliated before the last of them were wiped out. It was war. The death toll was massive.”

_ “I _ did that?” He doesn’t want to believe it. Doesn’t want to think that he’s capable of something like that, but...he  _ is. _ The evidence is right in front of him.

“No.” Jason shakes his head. His eyes are still distant and unfocused, but his brow pinches together and his face twists. “Not you. Not really. Our Tim is—Bruce’s death broke him. I think Ra’s just got to him at the right time. Got into his head. He was  _ never _ like this before. He would  _ never _ do anything that would hurt innocent people.” Jason blinks and focuses his attention on Tim’s face. Tim doesn’t know which version of him Jason is seeing right now. “You’re so much like him. Every time I look at you it’s like looking back in time. Before...everything.”

It’s Tim’s turn to shake his head. “I’m not innocent, either. I worked with Ra’s. I ran missions for the League.” Maybe Tim never killed anyone himself, but he’s not stupid. He  _ knows _ people had to have died on some of those missions—the ones that he’d coordinated but didn’t physically go on. Ra’s was always vague with him about it, but Tim can still feel the blood on his hands, even if it was put there indirectly. 

Jason’s eyes meet his. “But you don’t kill. I don’t even need to ask. I can see it.”

Tim shrugs. “No. You’re right, I’ve never gone that far. Not with my own hands. But...” He thinks about Boomerang. About watching him stumble and slip right off the edge of that rooftop. How for a split second Tim had hesitated. Thought about just letting him go. And when Tim had caught him with his grapple and Boomerang had taunted him, dared him to cut the line… “But I’ve come close.”

He wonders where this world’s Boomerang is. He has a feeling he knows the answer.

——

Tim heals. It’s a frustratingly slow process, but he heals. They finally give him access to the Batcomputer—the conversation in the study had evidently gone a long way toward gaining their trust—and progress towards finding a way to send him home is made much more quickly.

And while Tim works on that, Dick and Jason work on a plan of their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a pretty difficult conversation to write. So much for Tim to wrap his mind around!
> 
> Please leave a comment. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another difficult conversation.

Finally the day comes when Tim makes the last adjustment to the contraption they’ve rigged up in the Cave. It’s taken months, sweat, frustration, and  _ money, _ but they’ve done it. After lots of consultation with other heroes and scientists—and even a bit of surprisingly successful arm-twisting for Rip Hunter and Booster Gold to give them some tips with their knowledge of future tech—they’ve managed to jerry-rig a Justice League teleporter for interdimensional travel.

They  _ hope, _ anyway. Jason and Dick seem to have faith in Tim’s math, but they aren’t the ones planning to step inside of the thing and traverse space-time. Tim’s pretty confident himself, to be fair, but there’s still that niggling doubt in the back of his mind. He can imagine himself stepping into the portal and just disappearing from existence. That’s his most hopeful nightmare of it all going wrong, anyway. Others involve being slowly ripped apart at a cellular level, and in more fantastic versions, his cells get ripped apart and rearranged into different configurations. He doesn’t exactly want to land in his home universe as a re-imagined version of Flubber.

Just as Tim is finishing up his last bit of tweaking, he’s taking a step back to survey their months of hard work and trying to reassure himself that he’s not going to end up as a sentient pile of goo when he hears a quiet scuff behind him. He’s familiar with the sound by now—Dick can move silently when he wants, but he always purposefully makes a bit of noise when he enters a room out of politeness when he doesn’t feel like being a jerk and scaring the crap out of Tim.

Dick sidles up beside Tim and stands quietly next to him.

“It’s finished?” He asks, cocking his head in that bird-like way that is unique to this strange Talon version of his brother.

Tim nods. “Yep.” He’s come to know this Dick over the months, but he’s still not entirely comfortable being alone with him. It isn’t that he thinks Dick will hurt him now; it’s just...awkward between them.

“So you can leave. Any time you want. You could leave now.”

Tim glances at him out of the corner of his eye. There’s something in Dick’s face; an emotion that Tim would never have associated with this version of him. He thinks it might be...earnestness? Nervousness? Some kind of hope? Tim thinks it would take years of getting to know him to be able to decipher these more subtle emotions. This warped, repressed Dick doesn’t emote the way other people do. He’s an enigma.

He wonders if even Cass would be able to read him. He’s not so sure.

Tim doesn’t answer. Instead he waits Dick out.

“But...you’re not?” Dick finally asks.

They haven’t actually talked about this yet. There have been vague implications, but Tim hasn’t actually made any explicit confirmation of his intentions. He knows that Dick and Jason have been making plans that involve him, but he hasn’t asked for details. He trusts them enough that he doesn’t need to know the particulars in order to come to a decision. “No. No I’m not. I want to help.”

“Bring Tim down?”

Tim turns to Dick, then. Looks at him for a minute. Dick doesn’t look back, instead keeping his eyes straight ahead. That earnestness-nervousness-hope is still there.

“No.” Tim sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe. If it has to be that way, I suppose.”

Dick blinks then. He turns his head to look at Tim. Just his head, not his shoulders, or the rest of his body. So un-Dick-like. So like an owl. Tim shivers at the idea that the Court’s programming goes so deep as to have integrated into Dick’s very body language. He can’t imagine what they had to do to him to manage that. “You don’t know him. Not like I do.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “He’s  _ me. _ Sure, he’s had different experiences, maybe, but he’s still me.”

Dick raises his eyebrows. “You think you can talk him down? Turn him back? You think  _ you _ could be talked down?” Dick’s tone is condescending, but that odd, unnameable emotion is still there underneath, so Tim can’t tell if the line of questioning is out of honest want for an answer or if Dick is just mocking him.

Tim shrugs, keeping his response safely neutral. “I think I can try. I know which buttons to push.” He pauses for a moment, pondering. Debating with himself. Should he ask?

Probably not, but he asks anyway. He manages, at least, to stop himself from clearing his throat awkwardly in preparation of asking an uncomfortable question. It’s a bad habit he’s worked to rid himself of, but all of these difficult conversations he’s had to have recently have brought it out again. He can feel the phantom sting of his mother’s long fingers slapping his wrist in castigation. 

Tim makes sure to keep his tone flat, unconfrontational. The absolute last thing he wants is to make an argument out of this. “You don’t like me. Him.”

Dick huffs and Tim sees a shadow of his own brother in the flippant, exasperated upward flick of Dick’s eyes. “It’s not—I like  _ you _ fine.”

Tim thinks he can believe that. He doesn’t think he would still be standing here if Dick  _ truly _ disliked him. “Not him, though.” Not this world’s version of him. That much is painfully clear. “You hate him.”

“He got a lot of people killed,” Dick says.

Dick doesn’t deny it, but Tim thinks he detects a hint of uncertainty in his answer. Then again, that might just be Tim’s own false hope coloring his perception. He finds himself wondering how well Dick and other-Tim actually got to know each other. Dick and Jason hadn’t exactly been forthcoming on the details of the period of time where other-Tim had still been with them after Bruce’s death. It had been volatile on all fronts, that much he’d gathered, but had there been  _ any _ chance that some semblance of brotherly bonds had formed between the two of them before other-Tim fled?

“Killed some of them himself,” Dick continues. “Not just by proxy; with his own two hands. I saw him. We both did, Jason and I. Jason tries to forget.”

But Dick can’t forget. Just like Tim imagines he can’t forget the people he killed before he’d broken the Court’s programming. Can’t forget Bruce. That thought sparks a realization—a connection Tim hadn’t noticed until now. “He reminds you of yourself. Before you...came back.” And it’s true, Tim can see it in Dick’s face the moment the words hit him. It’s a twisted irony that Tim can’t ignore.

Dick’s gold-blue gaze sharpens. His voice is a razor’s edge. “Don’t try to psycho-analyze me.”

He’s pushing, he knows it, but he can’t let this go. “I’m just making an observation. You don’t know if he’s himself; if he’s doing this of his own free will. Like Jason said, maybe Ra’s got to him.” Is that why Dick hates him so much? Is so adamant about taking him down? Because he wishes someone had stopped  _ him? _

“It’s  _ different. _ You have no idea what the Court—what they  _ did to me. _ To—to make me that way. With Tim...there wasn’t time for that kind of...torture. Whatever he’s done, he’s done it by choice. So yes. I do hate him. For being weak. For  _ breaking _ when I  _ fought.” _ He’s breathing harshly, his eyes glazed over and far away.

So there’s more to it than Tim hypothesized, even. This  _ is _ partly Dick projecting himself onto other-Tim, but there’s also resentment. He’s pissed at Tim for letting himself fall so easily. Everything here is so distorted, it’s hard to disentangle the chaotic web of emotions and betrayals driving everyone’s motives.

“I’m sorry that happened to you. God, I really am. And it scares me to think that the same thing could have happened to my Dick.” And he feels guilty,  _ so _ guilty for being glad that it didn’t—that it happened to someone else instead. And he will never forgive himself for thinking that, for seeing the anguish in this version of his brother and  _ thinking _ that, but it’s not a thought that he can keep from slithering through his head, even if it’s only for a second. “But don’t we have to try?” He’s taking a risk here, he knows. He’s not close enough with this Dick to make such personal accusations, but it would be a disservice to his entire family not to try to mediate the situation. To try and repair what everyone else is trying to destroy. He wants so badly to derail this train of self-destruction they’ve all seemed to find themselves on. “Like they tried with you? Is it right to just give up, when there might be a chance?”

Tim hopes he’s made the right choice, trying to bring Dick around. His heart skips a beat when Dick doesn’t answer.

Then Dick blinks, coming back to himself, and his expression shutters, his body language closing off, and Tim’s stomach sinks. Dick turns and walks away, without a look or a word. This time his movements aren’t even a whisper against the stone.

——

In their planning sessions, Dick refuses to acknowledge any further mention of trying to bring other-Tim back to their side, but he doesn’t explicitly shoot Tim’s ideas down, either. Tim takes that as a solid probably-not-but-maybe. Jason is on board for trying, so Tim works the possibility of that into his contributions to the plan, in addition to making plenty of contingencies in the event that their attempts crash and burn horribly.

—— 

Jason and Dick’s plan to get them in with the League works. It’s embarrassingly simple, but it works.

They tell him that this Tim goes by  _ Crow, _ now—the natural enemy of the owl. Tim rolls his eyes at the revelation in immediate recognition of what  _ has _ to be Ra’s’ melodramatic influence there, but, oddly enough, it gives him a little twinge of hope. Hope that this Tim certainly seems to be heavily influenced by Ra’s. Maybe more than just  _ influenced. _

They use Tim’s intimate knowledge of League base locations (an incredibly useful asset that they hadn’t had before Tim’s arrival in this universe) to narrow their search down to one base where Crow is likely stationed, and surveillance of League movements only serves to strengthen Tim’s speculation. When they arrive at their destination, the three of them wrap themselves in generic League robes, Tim posing as this world’s version of himself. Dick and Jason’s faces are half-covered, but Tim leaves his bare, recognizable. They slip easily into the temple, and Tim hopes desperately that he’s right. That this is where their planning will all pay off.

And then Tim finally meets his alternate self.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter. Not sorry for the cliff hanger. >:) 
> 
> Also, yes...Crow. Don't @ me, all the cool names have been done and I don't wanna be a copy cat. Plus...come on, it's melodramatic af, Ra's would love that shit.
> 
> Leave a comment!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim, Dick, and Jason finally confront other-Tim.
> 
> \----
> 
> _Jason reaches up and pulls his own mask and hood down. On Tim’s right, Dick does the same._
> 
> _“Hey, Timbo,” Jason says softly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some melodramatic monologuing. ;)

They’re in a courtyard deep in the center of a League temple. The night sky is clear above them.

Crow is standing before a group of League ninja, all kneeling. He seems to be mid-instruction, speaking confidently. They’re too far away for Tim to make out the words, but the ninja are apparently enraptured by Crow’s lecture, they’re attention unwavering.

A younger boy sits at the head of the group, watching Crow with unashamed reverence. By his size, Tim would put him at around maybe twelve. Tim falters for a moment when he sees the boy, a sinking feeling coursing through him. The small, black-haired head turns slightly and when Tim gets a glimpse of the face, he stops walking altogether. Jason and Dick hiss at him quietly; he’s risking drawing attention to them too soon, but Tim can’t help himself. The shock stops his feet dead.

The boy is Damian. And Damian is looking at Crow the same way Tim has only ever seen him look at Dick. Like he loves him. Hangs on his every word. Would do anything for him.

And that...could be a problem.

But there’s no time to explain that to Dick and Jason now. So Tim forces his feet to move and they continue towards the group.

Crow wears a sleek, all-black form-fitting bodysuit. Tim is reminded of Nightwing, though unlike Dick’s suit, Crow’s lacks any distinguishing marks or symbols. This suit is made for stealth, for slinking into shadows and melting into them. A billowing cape falls down his back—like Bruce, Tim always was a sucker for a good cape, unlike his brothers, and it seems Crow is no different. The cape is a deep, inky black that shifts with the blue-green shimmer of a crow’s feather in the torchlight with every movement.

At his chest, a golden crest holds his cape together, very similar to the one that Talon normally wears. Where Talon’s emblem is an owl, there is instead, of course, a crow—it’s posed mid-landing, talons outstretched towards the ground, both wings thrown back as one—embossed on the metal.

The hilts of two weapons peek over each shoulder, crossed against his back. Tim can’t quite make out what they are from his current angle and distance. Twin daggers hang from each of Crow’s hips and a dark belt is slung around his waist, no doubt full of stylized shurikens and other throwing weapons, if Tim had to guess. He wears black gloves with black gauntlets, dual black-carbon blades poking out of each forearm.

Crow’s hair is identical to Tim’s—falling to his mid-neck in the back, and coming down to just below his ears on the side, too-long bangs falling in his eyes. It’s ruffled slightly in the way that Tim lets it get when he doesn’t have to keep it combed neatly for work. 

Instead of a domino, there is a black cloth mask covering the bottom half of Crow’s face. His eyes are the same blue as Tim’s, but they’re hollow. Tim is reminded of Talon when they first met, before he’d seen that spark of Dick behind them. 

He hopes they can find that same spark of Tim in Crow.

As they move closer to the group, heads begin to turn in their direction. As soon as Crow notices, his words fall silent and he looks toward them. His hollow gaze falls on the three of them and his eyes narrow when he notices Dick and Jason. The bottom half of their faces are covered, but Crow obviously knows them too well not to recognize them immediately. When he focuses his attention on Tim, however, surprise flickers across his features.

“Leave us,” he says, voice clipped and commanding in a way that reminds Tim more of Ra’s than it does of himself. The group of ninja rise immediately and disperse. Only Damian and Crow are left. Damian stands next to Crow and looks from him to Tim and back, his brow pinching with confusion.

“Master Crow?” He asks, hesitantly. “What is this?”

“Damian,” Crow says, his voice low and heated. “Fetch Master Ra’s. Quickly.”

Damian hesitates, looking between Tim and Crow again. “Master Crow, is it wise to leave you—”

_ “Damian,” _ Crow hisses. “Go. Now.”

Damian, sufficiently cowed, bows his head and hurries off with one last look over his shoulder before he disappears through one of the many doorways exiting the courtyard.

Crow turns toward them, muscles tensed, shoulders rounded. His knees are bent slightly. He hasn’t yet reached for his weapons, but his hands hang loosely at his sides.

Ready to fight at a second’s notice.

“What is this?” He asks, eyes flickering across the three of them and finding Jason. Crow reaches up a gloved hand and pulls his mask down, exposing his face completely. He has a light tan, like the one Tim had gotten when he worked with the League himself. “Jay?” Crow’s tone is careful, hesitant.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim sees Jason tense at the diminutive. Tim narrows his eyes. It’s hard, even for him, to tell if Crow’s unassuming demeanor is genuine or manipulative—meant to lower their guard. 

Jason reaches up and pulls his own mask and hood down. On Tim’s right, Dick does the same.

“Hey, Timbo,” Jason says softly. Crow’s lips lift in a small snarl at the nickname, the polite mask falling away. His eyes harden.

Manipulative, then.

“What are you doing here, Jason? What kind of trick are you playing? A clone?” Tim finds it interesting that Crow hasn’t acknowledged Dick yet. He’s been morbidly curious to see how they react to each other.

“Not a clone, kiddo. He’s the real deal. Alternate universe. Fell into our laps.” Jason’s voice is strained with a complicated mix of emotion.

Crow’s features harden even more as Jason speaks. Angrier with each nickname, each familiarity. Tim wonders if it’s the hurt of hearing his brother speak to him kindly, or anger at the indignity of being treated like a little brother. Maybe both.

“So you thought you’d  _ use _ him. To get to me? Typical.” He turns his attention to Dick. “Your idea,  _ Talon?” _ He spits the name with a vehemence that Tim is embarrassed to hear come from his own mouth. “People are just tools to your kind, after all, isn’t that right?”

Tim can hear Dick’s jaw popping as he grinds his teeth. Leather gloves creak as he balls his fists tightly.

“He’s not  _ like _ that anymore, Tim,” Jason pleads. “That’s not fair. You know what he’s been through. You  _ know _ how hard it’s been for him—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Jason.  _ He killed Bruce. _ Nothing you can say to me can ever make that better. I don’t care if he rescues kittens from trees and volunteers at soup kitchens. That doesn’t change what he is, whether you’ve  _ housebroken him  _ or not.”

Dick’s chest is heaving now, his breaths coming too hard and too fast. His eyes are wild and Tim recognizes an oncoming panic attack when he sees one.

“Dick,” Tim says softly, placing a hand on Dick’s forearm. Dick flinches at the contact, but doesn’t pull away. “Don’t listen to him. Just breathe.” Tim raises his voice loud enough that Crow can hear him as well. He looks Crow straight in his empty, dead eyes as he speaks. “He’s wrong, Dick. We all know it. He knows it too.”

“You know  _ nothing,” _ Crow seethes. “Your world is different. I can see it in your face. Your Bruce is alive, isn’t he? You couldn’t possibly understand,” he spits, face twisting with disgust.

“Don’t be so sure,” Tim says. “I know Ra’s. I know him well. Well enough to hear  _ his _ words coming from your mouth. Tell me...did you really believe all of that—that Dick is some irredeemable, rotten soul—before Ra’s got his claws into you?”

Crow blinks. Something flickers across his face but it’s there and gone before Tim can pin it down.

But it’s something.

“You didn’t, did you? You just hurt. You hurt, and you couldn’t look in the tormented face of your childhood hero knowing that he killed your father. So you left. And you let Ra’s into your head. Because it was easier to let someone else take control.” The truth in the words hurts to speak out loud. It’s not something that Tim has ever let out of his own head—how tempted he’s been to just... _ let go _ before. Running missions for Ra’s when he was with the League had been  _ easy _ and  _ simple. _ All he’d had to do was bow to Ra’s’ commands and he got what he needed to bring Bruce back. It would have been so easy to just keep going. He could have become Ra’s’ heir, could have had an entire army at his behest to do  _ anything _ he wanted. He could have turned the League into something  _ more, _ something that furthered Bruce’s Mission to new heights.

But he’d had Bruce to go back to. His family. Crow...had a brother who’d taken his father from him and a brother who hadn’t come after him when he’d left.

Here, he had a mentor who gave him the praise he would never admit that he always needed so desperately. Had a little brother who looked at him like he was his whole world; who was the only blood connection to the father they’d both lost.

“I didn’t—I didn’t  _ let _ anyone into my head,” Crow growls. “He’s...Ra’s is  _ right. _ I know what it takes to make a Talon. You can’t come back from that. No one can come back from that. It’s just a matter of time before he does it again. I ca—I won’t watch that happen.”

Dick speaks, finally. His breathing is still harsh, but he seems to have it mostly under control. “I am  _ sick,” _ he growls, “of everyone psycho-analyzing me. Don’t tell me what I can or cannot come back from. I  _ fought. _ I’ve worked  _ hard _ to get them out of my head. I had to feel my own  _ father’s blood run—” _ He chokes and swallows before continuing, taking deep breaths through his nose. Crow is staring, dead eyes boring into livid gold-blue. “And  _ you. _ You just  _ let _ Ra’s play with your head like it’s nothing? Don’t you  _ dare _ judge me. Look in a mirror, Crow.”

“Tim,” Jason’s voice is still soft, calm. So different from Tim’s Jason, with this gentleness with which he handles his damaged little brother. “If that’s really what you think then why did you let Dick live?”

“I—what?” Something sparks in Crow’s dead gaze and Tim feels a flutter of hope in his stomach. “I didn’t—you...because  _ you _ protected him.”

Jason shakes his head emphatically. “You had the entire League at your command. You could have taken us down easily. But you didn’t. If you  _ really _ believe what you’re saying, then he’s just another pawn of the Court, ready to snap any day now. You wiped them all out. Why leave one alive?”

Crow’s face twists in confusion. The spark is still there.

“Call it sentiment, I suppose.” Cold fire washes through Tim at the sound of that voice. Ra’s steps up next to Crow and places a hand on his shoulder. Crow almost collapses in relief.

“Master,” he chokes, almost breathless. He dips his head. Tim recognizes this for what it is—he’s surrendering control. Letting someone else make his decisions for him. Simple, easy. He can let his ever-spinning mind go quiet for once. Tim feels a macabre twinge of jealousy that makes him sick to his stomach.

“Some small weaknesses yet remain in my young protégé,” Ra’s says cooly, looking at Crow with fondness. Tim knows that look, and he knows that it isn’t real. He wonders if Crow recognizes Ra’s’ Machiavellian deception for what it is and chooses to ignore it, or if he really is just that far gone.  _ “Sentimentality _ is one of them,” Ra’s continues. “We are working on it. The Talon merely reminds him of the young hero whose body the Court of Owls twisted for its own disturbing purpose. He knows that that boy is dead, but the body is a reminder. A walking mausoleum.  _ Sentimentality.” _

Crow nods, his eyes cast down. “Yes, Master.”

Dick  _ growls _ and Tim’s stomach flips. He’s beginning to worry that they might be losing control of the situation.

Ra’s eyes Tim, and it's difficult not to shrink under his scrutiny. His skin crawls beneath the soulless green gaze.

“Another?” He muses. “Intriguing.” A slow, devious smile spreads over his face. “Useful.”

Crow raises his eyes and blinks at Ra’s. “Master?”

“Crow,” Ra’s says. “Kill the other two. Leave this…” His eyes rake over Tim again.  _ “Specimen _ alive.”

Crow looks at Jason. At Dick. He hesitates, his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows and his lips part, he takes a breath as though he’s about to speak, but Ra’s turns his gaze away from Tim to meet Crow’s and Crow’s lips snap closed.

The spark fades. 

Crow’s features shutter. He reaches up slowly and pulls one of the weapons from his back. With a twist and a flick, it expands and Tim recognizes it.

A bo staff. Unlike Tim’s, this one is golden, the hilt decorated with glittering emeralds. Ra’s’ colors.

Attached on one end of the staff is a deadly blade.

“Yes, Master.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think of Crow!Tim?
> 
> Thank you guys for all the great comments, I LOVE reading your theories.
> 
> Please leave a comment!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim vs. Tim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a short chapter. Really struggled with this one. Hope that doesn't show too much.

Crow is a better fighter than Tim. 

That isn’t to say that Tim himself isn’t a good fighter. He’s no slouch. He trained under Lady Shiva. Fought and won against all seven of the Council of Spiders at the same time. Fought and defeated KGBeast. He may not be the best fighter in his family, but his family is made up of some of the best fighters in the  _ world. _

Crow has clearly had more rigorous training—more  _ brutal _ training, Tim would hazard to guess. He’s faster, stronger; Tim has only just recovered from his injury and infection and though he’s been training some with Dick and Jason to regain his strength, he’s not at his peak, like Crow.

And Crow doesn’t hold back. His strikes are meant to kill. This is a version of Tim that has been training to  _ kill _ under  _ Ra’s al Ghul. _ For  _ years. _

Tim wonders if this is what kind of fighter he would have become had he stayed with Ra’s.

Tim had borrowed one of Crow’s old bo staffs from the Cave and hidden it beneath his robes. He’s using it now to block strike after deadly strike, but he’s losing ground. He’s entirely on the defensive here, utterly outclassed on his own. He’s reminded, dismally, of his last fight with Ra’s. The fight that had ended with Tim being kicked through a plate glass window.

While Tim hadn’t actually  _ needed _ to win that fight with Ra’s...Crow may have actually had a chance of at least getting in some significant hits had he been in Tim’s place.

There is no way Tim is winning this fight. Not on his own.

Dick is circling behind Crow, twirling a wakizashi in each hand—a deadly substitute for Nightwing’s escrima sticks. Jason only needs his fists—no guns for him in this world—but he isn’t joining in the fight.

“Tim, please. We didn’t come here to fight,” Jason pleads.

“Of course you did,” Crow says. The anger has faded from his voice now. It’s dull, empty. He lunges at Tim again, and Tim only barely knocks the strike away this time, following the block with a sweeping kick at Crow’s legs. Crow whirls, dodging the kick, his iridescent cape whooshing around him and obscuring any strike points from Tim’s vision. He dances back a step, and Tim takes the momentary reprieve to catch his breath. “You knew how this was going to end,” Crow continues.

“Jason’s not lying,” Tim says between gasps. Honestly, he’s pretty embarrassed about how out of shape he seems right now in comparison to his alternate self. Crow is barely breathing heavily. “He just wants to talk. He wants to help you.”

That brings the rage back. It ripples through Crow like he’s coming back to life. His mouth twists into a snarl. “I don’t.”  _ Shink. _ The blade of his staff rings against the stem of Tim’s. “Need.”  _ Shink. _ “Anyone’s.”  _ Shink! _ “HELP!”

Tim staggers back, the last blow too much. He stumbles and falls, going down hard on one knee, his unarmored kneecap crashing painfully into the stone.

Crow raises his staff for the killing blow, and Tim braces himself, raising his own borrowed staff in a futile defense. He flinches as the blade begins to come down, but before the blow lands, Crow suddenly redirects and spins around, his staff blocking Dick’s surprise attack from behind. Crow’s cape billows around him with the abrupt turn, momentarily blocking Tim’s view of the battle.

When the cape shifts again, Tim can only watch in awe.

This isn’t Dick fighting anymore. The deadly swift blows that are raining down against Crow’s staff over and over and over are thoroughly  _ Talon. _

Watching the two of them fight...they’re in an entirely different class than their counterparts in Tim’s world. Neither of them are holding back, every strike is a killing blow. Talon doesn’t kill, not anymore, and they hadn’t come here to  _ kill _ Crow, but watching them now...Tim isn’t sure that Dick remembers that.

As Tim watches, he can’t help but notice that Ra’s is doing the same from his place across the courtyard. He stands relaxed, his pose casual. The corner of his mouth is lifted in a slight smirk. He’s enjoying this.

Jason, too, watches. Grief pours off of him in waves as his brothers fight to the death. For him, there is no winning this fight. No matter who wins, Jason loses a brother. He stands, shoulders slumped, and it's clear that he has no intention of breaking into the fight. He knows there’s nothing he can do here.

Dick and Crow spin and dance in a whirlwind, almost too fast for Tim to keep track of. Crow’s cape spins and glides through the air with every movement, flashes of blue-green shimmering with torchlight. The sound of blade on blade rings through the courtyard, echoing against the stone walls. Tim honestly can’t tell who’s winning. Both men are bleeding from numerous wounds, but none look life threatening. Yet.

Suddenly, a howling screech pierces the air and another whirling figure hurls itself into the fray.

_ “Leave my brother alone!” _ The voice is high pitched. Barely beginning to crack with pubescence. 

Dick stumbles back unsteadily in surprise. Crow, who had been in the middle of a swing of his staff, redirects the blow just barely at the last second, the blade twisting away, missing the small figure by a hair’s breadth.

And then the clanging of metal on metal begins anew as Dick meets blow after blow from the smaller figure.

“Damian!” Crow cries. “Damian, no!”

“You are not  _ worthy _ to meet my brother in battle!” Damian yells. He swings his katana skillfully at Dick, who knocks his blows away with superior strength.

_ “Brother?” _ Dick and Jason ask in shocked unison.

Tim winces. He...maybe still hadn’t mentioned that.

“He’s Talia’s,” Tim calls out over the sound of Damian’s sword clashing against Dick’s wakizashi blades. “And uh...Bruce’s.”

The surprise of that revelation knocks Dick off balance  _ just _ enough that the control he’d been exerting to defend himself from the boy without  _ actually _ retaliating...slips. One of his blades slides off of Damian’s and draws a line of blood along the boy’s arm. To his credit, Damian doesn’t falter, or cry out. He continues his barrage of attacks, but Crow has had enough. At the sight of his little brother’s blood, Crow cries out in anger and  _ throws _ his staff like a spear. Dick stumbles back, twisting to dodge the flying blade, and Crow takes the opportunity to grab Damian by the back of his tunic and  _ yank. _ Damian loses his balance and staggers back into Crow’s arms. Crow pulls him back against his body, wrapping one arm around his chest, and using the other to squeeze Damian’s sword arm so hard his bones must grind together and gives it a harsh  _ shake. _ Damian cries out as his hand spasms open, and the katana falls to the stone courtyard floor with a resounding clatter.

And with that, the fighting stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters and an epilogue to go.
> 
> Please leave a comment!

**Author's Note:**

> Because I say so, the Court of Owls turned Dick into a Talon without making him undead. For reasons.
> 
> Comments keep me writing. Please leave one.


End file.
